


Broken Things

by commas_and_ampersands



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Character Death, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18545044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commas_and_ampersands/pseuds/commas_and_ampersands
Summary: Sirius is beginning to crack, but Remus is afraid of broken things.





	Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written June 2008; some revisions April 2019, in particular the ending, because apparently this level of fraught make out was achievable in a way it wasn't in this piece's spiritual second cousin, [Just Be Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13140366).

Remus hasn't always been so frightened of how easily things are broken.

It's not his greatest fear; he wouldn't see a shattered mirror or cracked bone hovering in front of him should he ever come face-to-face with a boggart.  No, that's down to an omnipresent satellite with power over the tides and a particular type of literary madness.  He has to think of it poetical and wrought large, more metaphor than object, so that he doesn't laugh himself sick.  He's afraid of _the fucking moon_.  It feels unpardonably stupid, werewolf or not.

There's another part of him, and maybe this is a particularly Gryffindor part of him, that regards fear as just.  Wasted space.  He could do so much more without these anxieties or sharp, sudden terrors.  He could be so much more.  He thinks a person could gorge themselves on fear, fill up and vibrate with it, until there's room for nothing else.  He thinks that could kill a person, or at least the parts that matter.  He thinks you could have a heartbeat and still turn into a phantom left to haunt your own life.  You can, in fact, be scared to death.

But, Remus surmises, fear of the moon (fucking _moon_ ) and fear of broken things are entirely different.  After all, he's afraid of other things in different, superficial ways.  He's afraid of Filch finally catching the four of them sneaking around beneath James's cloak.  He's afraid of poor marks and getting thrown out of school, of poverty and homelessness and failure.  He's afraid of the look Sirius gets in his eyes sometimes because he knows all the way down to his shifting blood that it means trouble, and Remus likes it far, far too much.  Being frightened of broken things is just like that.

(except that it isn't)

He supposes it's a werewolf thing, a consequence of his, quote, "furry little problem."  He doesn't quite understand but remains constantly aware of others' fragility.  He's careful of his friends during transformations.  Even though Prongs looks unbelievably solid and even though Padfoot rolls with every blow and tousle and even though Wormtail is too fast for him to catch.  But people break so easily.  He's seen boys broken by enspelled broomsticks or poorly mixed potions or by getting drunk on the Astronomy Tower and falling prey to gravity.  He's seen their legs snap like branches, their skin scalded.  He's seen the Hufflepuff keeper's body, silent and shattered on the ground.

But only he knows how his mouth flooded with saliva at the scent of blood.

People break.

And a werewolf is a very dangerous thing indeed.

This is what Remus ponders after the funeral at the top of that same tower, staring at the ground with Sirius by his side.  Well, sometimes Sirius is at his side and other times he's six paces away, but he always comes back.  It's the nature of pacing.

Remus wishes James were here.  Perhaps more accurately, he wishes James could help here.  He can't.  He thinks he can, but he can't.  He thinks that distraction is the cure for these dark tempers, these times when Sirius rages like a dragon poised to flame.  It works only too well.  All James really does is keep Sirius from noticing the blood in his mouth; he doesn't heal the wound.  And if James can't help, Peter certainly can't, although Remus knows he'd give everything for the ability.  So the task falls to Remus, at least in theory.

But damned if he can understand what's got Sirius so twisted up.

"Fuck," Sirius hisses.  It's the seventh time in an hour.  His hands are wound into his hair, pulling, and he's worrying at his lip so much that he keeps spitting away bits of dead skin.

"Sirius," Remus responds, hoping that, eventually, Sirius will remember how to carry on a conversation.

"Fuck, Moony."

It's an improvement.He opens his mouth to comment on how open the area is and that fucking as such would be ill-advised, but then he remembers that he's here to be Remus, not James.  Not that James would ever say "ill-advised."  And Remus making any comment about fucking and Sirius, particularly in connection to one another is.

Ill-advised.

"Sirius," Remus repeats.  He doesn't know how else to start.  "It's—"

"If you say it's going to be all right, Moony, I swear to God," Sirius nearly shouts.  The lack of specific threat is interesting, probably indicative of something, but Remus doesn't know what.  Chances are, if Sirius did snap and attack him, he'd come up with something horribly impromptu anyway, so maybe the words don't actually matter.

Regardless, that wasn't what he'd been about to say because he's not actually an idiot, thank you.

"I was actually going to say it's shite," Remus says, pitching his voice low.

Sirius might be slightly chagrined, but Remus knows better than to expect an apology.  "Too right it's shite," Sirius grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets with enough force that Remus half-expects to hear the fabric tear.  "This whole fucking day.  Fucking, fucking shite."

"Funerals are like that."

(except that's not what this is about, he doesn't think)

"When I die," Sirius says, still too loud, "I want you to promise me that there will be no funeral."

Remus raises an eyebrow and pointedly does not make a comment on the relatively low life-expectancy of werewolves and the consequential unlikelihood that he will outlive Sirius.  It strikes him as extremely unhelpful, to put it mildly.  "Really?  You don't want your thousands of adoring fans to pay tribute?"

This isn't the same as a distraction.  It's a momentary diversion, making light of subjects that are making Sirius so dark.  This is what Remus tells himself.

Besides, he's still not sure where this is coming from.  He needs more information.

Sirius huffs a laugh, too dull, but better than snarls or silence.  "Well, I suppose I can't disappoint the mourners from bidding one last farewell to my devastatingly attractive corpse."

Remus bites his tongue.

"But I refuse to be buried underground," Sirius says.  "I get claustrophobic."

Remus does not miss the small, nearly imperceptible waver in his friend's voice.  Sirius has never talked about his childhood in great detail, but Remus harbors sick suspicions of locked doors and cramped closets.  "I expect we'll have no choice but to cremate you.  Traditional pyre, do you think, or full Viking?"  He sees Sirius open his mouth, his eyes taking on a sudden, wicked gleam.  There's that promise of trouble Remus knows so well, and there's the quickening of his beating heart.  "And no, I will not let James and Peter throw firecrackers in at the last moment, don't ask me."

All good humor fades in an instant, and Sirius curls his lips hatefully.  It's the same look he gives Snape whenever their paths cross.  Remus tries not to take it too personally.

(except he does)

"Don't use the Prefect voice on me," Sirius snaps.  He pulls out a crumpled cigarette pack from his suit pocket (he burned all his dress robes years ago) and jams one in his mouth.  "I hate it when you do that."  Sirius pulls his left hand out of his pocket and his lighter with it.  He could light it magically, but lately Sirius has been relying on Muggle inventions for mundane tasks.  It's a very particular "fuck you" to his family.  Remus doubts even Regulus has noticed or cared.

The usual flame doesn't appear.  Just quick sparks that vanish the second they appear.

Remus reaches forward before the cursing can start anew, wrapping his fingers around Sirius's wrist.  Sirius stills, swallows, his throat bobbing.  Remus tries not to notice.

(except he does, he always does)

Remus gently removes the lighter from Sirius's grip.  It ignites easily.  Then he leans in, curling his hand around the bobbing orange flame to keep it from guttering in the wind.  He holds the flame to the paper, and Sirius breathes in.  The end catches, sizzles.

"Thanks," Sirius mumbles.  He takes a drag, turning his face to exhale.  Remus has a sensitive nose in every form and can't abide the smell on his clothes.

"I only meant that I'd rather not have to Scourgify my entire body to clean off all the bits of you I'd be coated in after."

Sirius winces.  "Right.  Sorry.  Didn't think of that."

Remus just nods.  He doesn't say anything for a moment, letting the wind whistle and whisper between them.  He glances up at the moon, noting how it's begun to wax.  He never forgets, exactly, but he always checks.  It's the nature of fear, he supposes, needing to stare it down even when you know better.

"I'm not quite sure how to do this, Sirius," Remus finally admits.

For a moment, Sirius looks bemused.  But only for a moment.  He snorts and flicks ash into the air.  "Shouldn't have come, then."

Remus really ought to know better than to let that sting.

(except he doesn't)

"Don't be an arse."

It's like he's whipped a wild stallion.  "Don't tell me what to do!" Sirius shouts, seething.  "Don't you stand there with your proper tie and your eyes looking at me like I'm a rotten brat and tell me what to do!"

And that is just outside of enough.

"He died."

Whatever Sirius meant to say next withers in his throat, and he turns away.

Remus continues, "Michael Dunleavy died, and it's shite."  He swallows.  "But that's no excuse for how you've been acting.  You've not just been in a mood; you've been mean.  You've been cruel.  And then tonight you pull out a bottle of Firewhiskey," he gestures to the as yet unopened bottle they've propped against the far wall, "and say you're heading for the Tower."

"Fuck off," Sirius growls.  For a moment, Remus thinks his shadow looks like an angry dog.

"You didn't know him," Remus points out reasonably.

"So what, I can only give a damn if we were the best of friends?"

"Historically?  Yes."

Sirius scowls, bristling at the accusation, but he can't argue.  Sirius cares about who Sirius cares about.  It's a short, frequently revised list, and Remus knows how easy it would be for Sirius to write him off.  He tries not to think about it.

(except he can't forget it)

"I wish you'd talk to me."

Sirius laughs his worst laugh: bitter and shadowed and hollow.  "Right.  Talking about my feelings is really going to do me a lick of good."  He takes a deep drag from the cigarette and then throws it on the ground, crushing it under his heel.  It's not even half gone.

Remus breathes.  "Then tell me what will.  How can I make this right?"

"Magic we don't have."

It's something in his voice.  Something about the hoarse gravel or the tiniest tremble.  Something about the way he has to lick the top of his mouth before he speaks.  Something about his hands flexing, the twitch in his shoulder, the shuffle of his feet.

Something about the way he looks over the edge of the balcony and the place where Michael Dunleavy broke.

Remus grabs Sirius by the shoulders before he's even registered the thought.  Sirius's suit coat is rough and scratchy beneath his palms.  He yanks Sirius towards him until their foreheads all but crash together.  They'll both bruise.  Sirius swears again, another "fuck" fallen out like a stutter.  He struggles in the sudden, almost violent embrace, but Remus will always be stronger than him, although he'll never look it.

"Padfoot," Remus whispers.  "Tell me."

Sirius has been cracked the whole day, precarious and fragile.  Remus has been particularly reminded of the porcelain dancing figurine on his mother's dresser, a delicate rendering of a ballerina in eternal arabesque.  When he was very young, he knocked it over.  It didn't break, not exactly, but when he picked it up to replace it, he saw her legs were covered in black, splintering spiderwebs.  Another fall, another knock, and she would break.  And because she's never truly broken, she's never been truly mended.

This, Remus thinks, is the equivalent of the second knock off the table.

He's right.

Sirius splits wide open.  Something in his gaze breaks, and his shoulders hitch.  Sirius stops trying to push him away, grips the back of his neck tight with both hands.  Remus readjusts his grip in turn.  He can't and won't let go.

"I don't want to die," Sirius says.  "I don't want any of us to..."

Finally, Remus understands.  The war.  He feels a fool for not having figured it out sooner.

"It's coming fast, isn't it?  I've chosen my side.  I don't regret that.  I'll fight, and I'll—I'll die if I have to.  But."  He lets out another, different horrible laugh, wet and... yes, afraid.  "Wasn't it just last year we were figuring out how to spell all the portraits so that they only spoke German?"

Remus can't help but give a faint smile.  "A particular challenge since none of us actually speak German."

"Right?  I miss that.  We haven't done anything like it in months, and then.  Bloody Dunleavy.  I just keep thinking: he would have fought, wouldn't he?  He'd have fought, if he lived.  Odds are good that he'd've died anyway, year or two from now.  But he's fucking dead now, and we might—"

"I can't say we'll make it out alive, you know," Remus interrupts.  "If that's what you want, I can't give it to you."

"I know," Sirius admits, voice and body sagging with exhaustion.  "I know you can't."

Remus licks his lips.  He can't make promises.  War will make him a liar and an oathbreaker, and he doesn't want to be those things.  He can't make promises.

_(except he will)_

"But I won't let you."

Sirius makes a noise like the breath has been punched out of him.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Remus repeats.  "If I can, if I'm there.  I won't let it."

Sirius keeps leaning against him, absorbing the impact of that statement.  Then he pulls away, and though part of Remus can't help but feel a bit bereft at the loss, he understands the need for Sirius to respond on his own two feet.  "I promise too.  I'll… I'll look after you, Moony.  James and Pete as well."  His jaw sharpens.  "You're my family now."

He can't let Sirius see how much that means to him.

So he doesn't.

He tilts his head towards the tower exit.  "Go back inside?"

Sirius scrubs at his wet cheeks.  "Yeah."  He grabs the liquor bottle, wordlessly shrinks it, and stashes it away.  When he straightens, he gives Remus a particularly intent look.

The moon is bright and his night vision is excellent, and he still can't read it.  Something about it makes him feel itchy and warm.  He forces himself not to look away.  "Something wrong?" 

"Hm?"

"You're staring."

"Oh.  Sorry, no.  Just."  He shrugs, the gesture oddly muted.  "Thanks.  For this."

"It's fine."

"It's not bloody  _fine_ , it's—"  He straightens from his crouch, and if anything, looks at Remus with more intensity.  "You don't even know, do you?"

Remus doesn't get to ask what he's meant to know because Sirius strides forward, pulls him in by the nape of his neck, and slots their mouths together.  It's clumsy and urgent and it's own separate kind of violent embrace.  But it's also soft and warm and right in a way that feels simultaneously brand new and achingly familiar.

He's never been kissed before.  Incredibly, at least from Remus's point of view, Sirius has never been kissed before either, though plenty would volunteer for the privilege.  Sirius has so little patience for people.  He'll court a certain level of infatuation, even adulation, but you don't kiss a sycophant.  There's a short list of people Sirius actually likes, and Remus has long assumed there's a shorter list of people he could see himself kissing.

It never occurred to Remus that those lists might overlap.

"You're always watching me," Sirius breathes against his mouth.  Remus's shoulders start to curve with humiliation, but Sirius grabs the short hairs at the back of his neck and gives him a shake.  "I thought you were waiting for the right moment - you're always so bloody careful - but you weren't, were you?  You didn't even see me looking back."

"Why would you?" tumbles out of Remus's mouth before he can stop it.

Sirius sighs.  "I bloody hate it when you get like this.  I don't have a long, romantic declaration in me right now, Moony."

Remus's head swims.  Romantic declaration?  Does that mean Sirius might have one later?  "I'm not asking for one."

"That's bollocks, but we'll deal with it later."  He crowds against Remus, maneuvering him backward until his back is flush against the stonework next to the tower door.  Remus lets himself be manhandled.  "I want to kiss you, and I have done for awhile.  Can you just leave it there for now and let me?"

He can't.

Can he?

He's a werewolf, but Sirius knows that.  It's not something you forget.  It might even be part of the appeal, and that's a briefly sour thought in his throat, but no.  Sirius wouldn't kiss him because he's excited by danger; the danger's irrelevant.  It's not a factor.  He wouldn't pretend to want to kiss as a joke.  He knows damn well that's just not funny.  Sirius doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do.  Therefore, he kissed Remus because he wanted to, even though the thought skips in Remus's mind like a bad record.  He can't hold it.  It doesn't feel real.  But Sirius pushed up against him is real, his body heat and the smell of cigarettes and the lingering trace of saltwater on his skin.

Why can't he have this?  Actual reasons, Remus, not just the panic living in the space between your frantic heartbeats.

Remus could break him.

But they're both of them broken already, aren't they?  Everyone is.  All the metaphors he's used tonight have been flawed from the beginning.  No one is whole.  In the moonlight, even Remus is fragile.

He can have this.  They can both have this.

Sirius worries at his lip again.  "Unless... I was wrong, and you don't... want this."

(except yes he fucking, fucking does)

Remus kisses him.

It's perhaps even more artless than the first, but that matters less than the sudden all-consuming need to taste him.  He wants this, and he can't let Sirius think otherwise again, not for a moment.  They're alive, and they're going to stay alive, for this.  For that quiet sigh, for the thrumming pulse beneath his palm, for that quick curl of a tongue, for the warmth and the wet and the _oh_ —

Sirius laughs into his mouth, and finally, it sounds right.  "Guess you do."

Remus smiles.

"Come here."

He does.

And for once, or at least for now, Remus is not afraid.


End file.
